Abner rose, white and shaking, and thrusting three fingers into the buttoning of his vest, extending the other hand like an orator, proceeded to instruct the freckled, perspiring disciple at his feet.

“‘Hang your hat on the rack, or give it to a servant.’” Ross nodded intelligently.  He could do that.

“’Let your legs be gracefully disposed, one hand on the knee, the other—­’”

Abner came to an unhappy pause.  “I forget what a fellow does with the other hand.  Might stick it in your pocket, loudly, or expectorate on the carpet.  Indulge in little frivolity.  Let a rich stream of conversation flow.’”

Ross mentally dug within himself for sources of rich streams of conversation.  He found a dry soil.  “What you goin’ to talk about?” he demanded, fretfully.  “I won’t go a step farther till I know what I’m goin’ to say when I get there.”

Abner began to repeat paragraphs from Hints and Helps. “’It is best to remark,’” he opened, in an unnatural voice, “’How well you are looking!’ although fulsome compliments should be avoided.  When seated ask the young lady who her favorite composer is.’”

“What’s a composer?” inquired Ross, with visions of soothing-syrup in his mind.

“A man that makes up music.  Don’t butt in that way; you put me all out—­’composer is.  Name yours.  Ask her what piece of music she likes best.  Name yours.  If the lady is musical, here ask her to play or sing.’”

This chanted recitation seemed to have a hypnotic effect on the freckled boy; his big pupils contracted each time Abner came to the repetend, “Name yours.”

“I’m tired already,” he grumbled; but some spell made him rise and fare farther.

When they had entered the Claiborne gate, they leaned toward each other like young saplings weakened at the root and locking branches to keep what shallow foothold on earth remained.

“You’re goin’ in first,” asserted Ross, but without conviction.  It was his custom to tear up to this house a dozen times a week, on his father’s old horse or afoot; he was wont to yell for Champe as he approached, and quarrel joyously with her while he performed such errand as he had come upon; but he was gagged and hamstrung now by the hypnotism of Abner’s scheme.

“’Walk quietly up the steps; ring the bell and lay your card on the servant,’” quoted Abner, who had never heard of a server.

“‘Lay your card on the servant!’” echoed Ross.  “Cady’d dodge.  There’s a porch to cross after you go up the steps—­does it say anything about that?”

“It says that the card should be placed on the servant,” Abner reiterated, doggedly.  “If Cady dodges, it ain’t any business of mine.  There are no porches in my book.  Just walk across it like anybody.  We’ll ask for Miss Champe Claiborne.”

“We haven’t got any cards,” discovered Ross, with hope.

“I have,” announced Abner, pompously.  “I had some struck off in Chicago.  I ordered ’em by mail.  They got my name Pillow, but there’s a scalloped gilt border around it.  You can write your name on my card.  Got a pencil?”